


Yesterday is Dead

by truc



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman/Superman - Fandom, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Dementia, F/M, M/M, Paranoia, Past Friendship, Past Love, Sad Ending, growing old and apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: A distressed Bruce Wayne enters into Clark's and Lois's home in the middle of the night. Clark must calm him down without falling apart.





	Yesterday is Dead

I hear his voice again. This time, it's not part of my nightmares or dreams, I realize with a start. Lois stirs beside me and mumbles something incoherent.

I shake my head at the impossibility of his presence, put a bathrobe on and walk to the living room where he's rummaging through the room. Lois comes by a bit later to see me rooted to my spot at the edge of the living room. She analyzes the situation and gives me a small push, "Go help him calm down. I'll take care of the call."

I numbly nod and walk at his side, scared witless to address him. He looks at me with his blue-grey eyes and, suddenly, he appears much younger than he is. Bruce has always known how to embued his personas with a strange vitality.

"Clark, stop gaping and help me search the room," he orders with the same decisiveness Batman always had. It was better not to upset him too much so I helpfully held up the couch or moved the furniture around. It wouldn't take me a minute to put it to their rightful place. 

He shouldn't be doing this. He's going to hurt himself, I think as he suspiciously looks behind our curtains. 

"What are you looking for?" I ask since I know from experience he won't just tell me why without any prompting. 

He sends me a patronizing look, his white hair fluttering at the movement, "Isn't it obvious?"

I know better than to tell no. He starts on our coffee table, opening all our drawers with a thoroughness that marks his obsessive-compulsive disorder. 

"Why are there so many papers?" He breaks the silence. 

"Those are our insurances and guarantees," I answer to fill the silence with anything but my stray thoughts. 

He scoffs at the majority of them, "These are worthless." 

I lift one eyebrow at him but close my mouth before I can say something hurtful. There are a lot of words he deserves to hear from me, words I never told him, but this isn't the Bruce I should be saying them to. Instead, I ask, "Why?" 

"This corporation is filing for bankruptcy," he indicates one of the paper, "And the guarantees are all past their dates." I close my eyes because the fact he remembers those unimportant facts weigh on me more than I care to admit. 

He goes through our next drawer, reading quickly through our notebooks filled with our contacts, "It's not there... Why isn't it there Clark?"

I look at the couch and see Lois entering the room with one leg limping, "He's coming, Clark. He'll be here in fifteen minutes. Do you want me to stay?" 

I shake my head. Bruce continues to go through another drawer with the same briskness.

Lois nods. I see the pity in her eyes as she looks at Bruce before she heads to our bedroom. 

"Why is she here?" Bruce grits through his teeth. 

And that burns more than it should, "She's my wife."

Bruce slams the drawer shut, "You hypocrite."

I decide not to answer the accusation. This Bruce doesn't understand.

Looking at him blanching at seeing me happy without him, in the numerous photos of Jon, Lois and I, shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. It was his decision that had led us here. His confusion wasn't my fault either. No matter, the lump in my throat couldn't be rationalized away. 

His hands grip the photo album as he melts on the ground, not saying a word for the longest time. He puts the album down and just stares blankly at the coffee table. 

"What are you looking for?" I decide to say, just to fill the growing awkwardness. 

He puts one of his wrinkly hands on his head as if to force himself to remember. I already know it is unlikely to work. Willpower can't will away illnesses. 

"Someone is spying on me," he quietly answers. 

There are no answers he would want to hear so I stand mute. 

"I had a tracker in my arm. There were listening devices and cameras everywhere in the Manor. I'm locked out of the cave. Alfred is not there."

I cross my arms, "Why did you come here?" 

Bruce doesn't answer. He slowly stands up and walks into the kitchen, leaving me all alone (again). 

It's only then I remember about the tracker. 

I hurry after him into the kitchen to see him starting the coffee machine. I use my eyes to see through his clothes on his arms and I notice, with a wince, the bandage he put around his arm to staunch the blood. 

I force his arm up and remove his sleeve. I curse at the sight. 

"I don't think I'm that ugly," he jibes.

"You're hurt and you didn't even let me know!" I answer furiously. 

He levels a look at me in all seriousness, "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing! You can die from wounds like this," I reply with more bite than necessary. 

He shrugs, "I won't." 

"That's it. No coffee for you. We are cleaning your wound up," I drag him to the restroom and I see him observe the room with a wariness that is worrisome. 

I shake a bit as I tear off the bandage to wash away the blood. He notices but thankfully shuts up. How often had I done this before? How often has he worried me to death with his lack of worry about his own health? I had been thankful, a few decades ago, when he had retired from Batman. It seems to have been premature.

I stitch the wound up.

"Can I have coffee, now that I've been a good boy?" he asks with a hint of humour as I make the final stitch. 

My heart wrench at the sentence he had often used a long time ago. 

I shake my head, "No, you have to go back to sleep."

His face darkens and he pulls his hand back. He stumbles away. I follow him, "Wait."

He puts his coat back on. 

"Where are you doing?"

Bruce steadies himself, "Away."

"Why?"

He shakes his head, "There's nothing left for me here, Clark."

It burns my insides in a way no alien poison could. I try to reason with him, "You're my friend."

He looks at me in a way that proves that, despite my best intentions, I have been too transparent with him tonight, "We both know that's not true, Clark."

"It's true. We are friends," I tell him with as much conviction as I can gather.

"I'm not in your contact list."

"That's because I remember your phone numbers and emails by heart."

He looks pained as he explains, "You're too meticulous for that, Clark. Besides, this whole night, you've been avoiding calling me by my name."

I am stumped. There is no denial possible.

As much as Bruce's memory is spotty, he still has most of the attributes that made him the world's best detective. 

We stand there, in the vestibule, looking at one another. God, it's hard. He's old and withered, but his eyes have almost the same brightness as they had back then. Even his voice hasn't changed much. 

"I'm sorry," I tell him. And I am because I can't even bear to say his name out loud. I'm a coward.

He turns to the door, his shoulders slightly dropping from disappointment. Someone knocks and Bruce puts his hand on the door and opens it. Damian enters and his eyes fix on his father's figure, gauging his physical health. Then, and only then, he turns to me, "Sorry for the inconvenience. No matter what we put as security, he always escapes the premises. It's the first time he goes as far as Metropolis."

I smile back, "It's no problem." Damian's forehead wrinkles. It seems I have not gotten any better at lying to the Batfamily. 

Damian offers his father his arm which, surprisingly enough, Bruce takes with some minor grumbling. "Let's get you back to our home, Father," Damian says. He looks at me and apologizes again for the disturbance. 

I hear them going down the apartment building and I go find my wife in our bed. I lie beside her, incapable of sleeping. When morning comes, I feel her rubbing my shoulders in my back, "Clark, are you okay?"

I don't answer. I don't think I'll ever find an adequate answer to that.


End file.
